Improbable Surrogacy
by Ashipisawishyourheartmakes
Summary: A post Fall fic exploring the common threads that connect the people in John and Sherlocks' lives.
1. Annoyed

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters and I am only writing to feed my fan-girl angst and not for money.

Author's Note: This is my first time posting a story online. I tried to edit as best as possible. I do not have a Beta.

post RF

* * *

A knock on the door of 221B at the ungodly hour of half past four stirred John Hamish Watson out of a deep ... nothing.

His eyes blinked, moving from the wall he'd been staring at listlessly for several hours and fixed blearily on the clock near his bedside.

_Who in __the bleeding- _

The knock sounded again: brisk, powerful, insistent.

Familiar. But who? Lestrade?

John worked up a bit of... something.

Concern? no too strong. Curiosity? Perhaps.

The knock sounded again, louder this time.

The feeling flashed through him, a bit stronger this time.

Ah. Annoyance with a sprinkling of frustration.

_Well, nothing __new about tha- _

John cut that thought off as he heaved himself out of bed and rushed downstairs to the door.

_It isn't. No. no, of course not, don't __be stupid. I mean I saw-_

He ripped the door open and gaped at the figure standing in the doorway. His breath came out in a woosh.

"You. You're dead. I mean- you're meant to be dead. You aren't dead?" he demanded, his brain refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him.

The impossibly brilliant eyes rolled a bit.

"Obviously. Don't be stupid. May I come in then? Don't fancy being seen, you know."

John shut his mouth, which he realized was stupidly agape, and stepped back to allow the phantom entrance. The achingly familiar black coat landed

half on top of his head and half in his limp arms.

"How did you get this back-? Nevermind. I don't care."

The cold eyes danced with the joy of knowing a secret.

"Oh yes you do. But that can wait. Tea? I'm frozen."

John barked out a wild, slightly mad laugh. "Oh I expect so, you were dead after all."

The illusion's dark curls shook as their voices joined in a childish fit of giggles.

John recovered himself first "shhh.. we can't... we'll wake Mrs. Hudson."

Lips grinned under positively feline cheekbones.

The two headed up to the flat. John busied himself making tea in the kitchen as he watched the pale shape drape slender limbs in _His_ chair.

He cleared his throat as one luminous finger reached out to lovingly caress the long abandoned violin. "No. Don't-"

The finger withdrew and two glacial pools bored into him, through him. The dark brow quirked quizzically.

John struggled to ignore the look and made every effort not to-

"Limp John?"

John huffed and set the tea tray on the side table.

"So why- Why are you here then? Why aren't you off somewhere being secretly not dead? Having a good laugh, eh? I mean I must admit you

had Everyone fooled, Very Convincing, I mean even Mycroft-" a snort of derision erupted from the opposite chair.

"Please John. If Sherlock Holmes was actually everything you professed him to be on your precious blog, do you really think Big Brother proved too much to handle?"

"No. No- of course not. And I'm left out of the loop again. Naturally. I mean why tell me, I'm only the best friend-"

A hand hovered carefully above John's knee.

"John. Please. I know how you must be feeling."

"NO. No you BLOODY well don't. You have no f-, no concept of how I feel."

"I came to see you as soon as I was able, as soon as it was safe- I am so sorry. So, so sorry John."

John could almost taste his own bitterness.

"I'll bet you are. Whatever are you going to do now your 'cat and mouse game' has gone

and killed himself? You'll be bored all the time I expect. I suppose I have to let Mycroft know you're alive just so you don't tear the

country apart for a laugh- a- a distraction or whatever."

John stiffened as he felt those strong, delicate arms pull him in a tight, bone-crushing hug. Suddenly it was all too much, and John let

out a sob that he would very much rather the other had never witnessed.

"It wasn't your fault, it was a trick." the voice breathed.

John broke away from the uncomfortably soothing embrace.

"What. What was that?"

Irene blinked at him, startled.

"What?"

He grasped her shoulders roughly, commanding her attention in a way he'd never dared if-

"Trick. You said trick, it was a trick. He said that. In his no- his call- The last time we- Why, why would you say trick?"

Irene touched his face softly.

"I only meant- I know you, Doctor. There is no way on earth you would ever have left his side, unless he wanted you to, and even then it

would've taken nothing short of magic to keep you away."

John reeled at The Words, the ones _He_'d used when-

John Hamish Watson awoke at 1pm from his first sleep in a week. He was in his bed, his room, exactly where he'd started off the night. He'd

just about decided to write off the encounter as a rather unpleasant dream when he spied The Coat thrown across the back of _His _chair. It

wasn't until a couple of weeks later that he noticed his favorite jumper was missing.

Irene had made him feel again.

Had made him feel-

_Annoyed._


	2. The Work

Thanks to everyone who favorited this story!

Also thanks to Zimzorful for her review ^_^

* * *

_Three. Three then. First random, second sightseeing or more likely __given the area and the late hour: Lost. _

_But a third- three is __purposeful, deliberate, seeking something_.

Sherlock was crouched in the dark - sweaty, bruised and exhausted.

He glared out at the form across the street as it made its third pass near his squat.

_Short-would only come up to about shoulder height. Probably male,_

_based on the dress. Trousers. Black jacket. Oatmeal jumper. Some sort __of billed cap. _

_Stride is purposeful, nearly aggressive. Bearing: __agitated. Militaristic? _

_-would imply used to giving and receiving __orders. Slight limp-_

Sherlock's racing mind ground to a halt.

_Impossible_.

It simply was not possible that the form was-

crossing the street? It was crossing the street and seemed headed straight for him

and his hovel. Sherlock stood, whirling about and looking for somewhere to hide-

Three booming knocks interrupted him, followed by a familiar voice

"Come on. Now I know you're in there, and I know you've seen me, so no use pretending you aren't in. Open up."

Sherlock simply did not know what to do, so he did as the prowler asked and with a twinge of embarrassment,_ and something else? _turned the lock and

waited. The door burst open and then was slammed shut with no little bit of force.

"I knew it. I knew you weren't actually dead. You are an absolute twat. I ought to punch you right in the face."

Sherlock fought the impulse to step back.

"Please don't. How did you find me?."

His guest barked a laugh.

"Really? I show up after you've been dead for three months and you only care about how I found you? It wasn't that hard, I'm not stupid. Do you have any idea what you put everyone through? Do you even care? It is an absolute mess back there. Everyone who cares about you has been devastated for months. You couldn't have clued anyone in on this? I mean, not Mrs. Hudson? Your detective Lestrade? Molly? _Me_? I mean if not me at least you could've told-"

"Molly knows." Sherlock cut in.

The strength Sherlock was used to seeing in those eyes faltered and was replaced by _pain? envy? __resignation? _

It was gone in a flash and too hard to identify.

_Fascinating_.

"What, Her? Why her? Why not-"

"It had to be her. Think it through, it is more than obvious. Why have you come?"

_Back straightened, chin up, eyes hard, voice strong_. "I came to help."

Sherlock snorted and took a seat back in the nest of blankets that had been his bed this past week.

The intruder insisted "Sherlock, I want to help. You don't have to do this alone just to prove how clever you are."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, as if about to speak.

"Did you steal that sweater from John?" He demanded eyes narrowed.

Irene flinched at the look and nodded. "Yes, I needed something to-"

Sherlock extended his pale calloused hand towards her. "I'll have it."

"What? The jumper? If you wanted me naked Sherlock all you had to do was-"

Sherlock held up his hand. "I'll have the sweater. Just the sweater.

... Please."

Irene turned away and pulled the jumper off over her head and tossed it in the general direction of Sherlock.

Throwing her black jacket back on, she turned to face him.

"Well if you won't let me help, I'll be off before one of Mycroft's spies sees me."

Sherlock arched a brow. "Will you be alright? Your leg?"

-referring to _the bloody limp, _that with this jumper had_ made him think_-

She grinned. "Yeah, just a bit of a twist. Nothing like the limp John was sporting when I visited."

She shot a wink at him and disappeared into the night.

Sherlock lay in the dark in a deep... nothing.

Waiting for the sun to rise so he could finish The Work.

It had taken The Woman to remind him what he was working towards.


	3. Her Boys

Sorry it has taken me a little while to update, life got away from me.

* * *

Irene was alone when they came for her.

She was in a chalet in Switzerland, congratulating herself on assisting the men she had affectionately begun to think of as "her boys".

Word had reached her that since her visit a new fire had found its home in Dr. Watson. His limp had all but vanished and he had joined in the chase. Whether he was after her or Sherlock or Moriarty's network was hard to tell, but she didn't much care in any case.

So long as he is doing something. He had been a dreadful bore, all gaunt and moping about the flat.

Her spies among Mycroft's men (honestly the Man should really screen better) told her much the same about Sherlock.

Where before he'd seemed worn-out, strung-out and very close to beaten, he now appeared clear-eyed and laser focused. He was a hunter again, stalking down his prey. The men he sought didn't stand a chance.

She knew her boys, well, knew what they needed to function.

So in place of what they needed she'd given them a totem, a symbol, a surrogate: a piece of the other man to work towards, to reach for.

_What a lot of fun_.

Irene lay on the couch, basking in her success and the fire's glow when she heard it.

Three raps on the door. Soft. Firm. Commanding.

_Of course_

.

She knew after making herself visible to her boys it would only be a matter of time until she was found. Still after peering through the

peephole she was surprised to see them both there. Together again. She adjusted the knife concealed in her bosom and then opened the door

with a smile.

"Hello. What a pleasant surprise. I wasn't expecting to see you both again."

The genius at her door smirked at her.

"Oh I think if I can defy death, finding you is child's play. Especially when you made it so easy. Dear Irene, always so predictable."

The man at his side fidgeted a bit at that, his grip tightening on his service revolver.

"I still haven't forgiven you for that stunt. You scared the piss out of me you absolute wanker."

The dark-haired man turned and regarded his companion with a mixture of exhaustion and affection.

"I've told you I'm sorry about all that. I couldn't let you know what I was going to do or it would've ruined everything."

The ex-soldier grimaced "Still-" he protested weakly, but a look from the other man silenced him.

"Now Ms. Adler, may we come in? We have some things we'd like to discuss with you."

Irene stood aside and allowed Moriarty and his _whatever he is- __Boyfriend? _Moran to enter.

As she closed the door she hoped, with a hint of desperation, that if it was _her_ John Watson was looking for- he would hurry up and find her

already.


	4. The Flat

A. I haven't updated in a bit. Chapter 4!

* * *

Moriarty stood on the street staring up into The Flat.

He'd spent hours, _days_ prowling this street, watching the comings and goings, trying to climb inside the head of his hobby.

Irene had proved utterly useless. _Typical_.

Sebastian hadn't managed to get anything out of her, except a wad of saliva to the face; at which point it became necessary to call his dog off or risk killing their delightful hostage. Seb's subsequent rage had been amusing, but Jim was ready to get back to The Game.

Moriarty stared at the tantalizing silhouette moving in the front windows.

_Ah, there you are-my dear._

There was only one person in the world Sherlock would've trusted with the secret of his escape.

Sherlock's Shadow; the Dearly Devoted Doctor.

Moriarty had decided it was time to expand his collection.

He rang once.

The door opened shortly after to reveal a small sandy-haired woman.

He shot her a toothy grin. "Hello deary."

He let his eyes rake over her form, collecting data.

_Fatigue- chronic, no more than two or three hours of sleep a night._

_Lose skin around face and neck indicate sudden weight-loss- combined __with significant increase in appearance of grey hairs: extreme __stress/grief. _

_New frown lines- laugh lines less prevalent. _

_Black __dress. New- but worn several times since purchased: In Mourning._

_Quaint. Old fashioned. _

_New hairstyle- shorter, more stylish: __confidence boost- new relationship?_

_Watery eyes- red nose- tissue fuzz __on the face, been crying. Smells of tea and bleach and cooking sherry._

Her eyes widened and she let out a small gasp.

He stepped forward, over the threshold, her natural flinch backward allowed him room to pass.

"I know. Terrible isn't it? Death just doesn't mean what it used to. The kids these days, thinking they can just stop being dead whenever they please. It is a disgrace really."

She let out a choked sob and glanced at the staircase to her right.

He reached a hand out and very gently caressed her face.

"Now, now. Don't be like that. I won't hurt you. It isn't you I'm after. But, I think you _are_ right. We should take this little party upstairs."

Kicking the door shut behind him, he grabbed a handful of black dress and walked the woman in front of him up her own staircase.

As they reached the top, he slid his arms around her shoulders and pulled her tightly back into his embrace.

"Oh Molly. How I've missed you. We're going to have such fun, you and I."

The terrified squeak that escaped her then was the last sound Molly Hooper made for a long time.


	5. Codename: Sesame Street

A. N. : Hey Readers! We are approaching the end. Only a couple more chapters to go! Enjoy ^_^

* * *

Shortly after Moriarty made his way into the flat of Molly Hooper, across town a man sitting behind his desk received a phone call. The man grimaced and picked up the receiver .

"What is it?"

"It is Molly Hooper, Sir. The surveillance detail you placed on her has reported anomalous activity." The woman stated crisply.

The man pursed his lips and cleared his throat carefully.

"Abduction?"

"Appears to be sir."

With the press of a button, the man transferred the call to his mobile. He rose from his desk in a composed manner, gathering his overcoat and the umbrella that was leaning near the door. "I need a full report compiled and sent both to my mobile, as well as a sealed hard copy to be delivered to the Diogenes Club."

"Yes sir" the professional young woman replied. "Anything else?"

The man exited the building with a purposeful stride and slid into the government issue black vehicle that awaited him outside.

"No. That will be all. Keep me informed of any developments."

"Of course sir." the woman replied almost mechanically and the call terminated. Minutes later the car arrived at an abandoned factory located deep in a very seedy section of town. The man stepped out of the car and plunged into the depths of the decrepid structure. He made his way though moldy heaps of rubbish and around rusted out spots on the metal grid beneath him, careful to not sully his suit. Finally, in the bowels of the place he came upon a filthy bearded man huddled near the old incinerator. He gave the filthy man a sharp poke with the rather distinctive umbrella he was carrying. "You can't stay here, this building is derelict. What do you think this is, Sesame Street?" The filthy man looked up sharply, his eyes filled with cold fury. He got up and darted into the old incinerator and the man in the suit followed him, sliding the heavy industrial door closed behind him. As soon as the door slammed shut the filthy man grab ahold of the other man's suitcoat. "What has happened to Molly Hooper?" The filthy man demanded. "Dead?"

The man in the suit pried the other man off of him and took a step back. "Not as far as we know. Abducted about thirty minutes ago. I've scramble the special forces on my way over, one of my people is keeping the vehicle in her sights and so far there has been no disturbance to the GPS tracking signal from the pet ID chip we had installed." The filthy man drew himself up to full height, abandoning all pretense of his beggar facade. "One job." He growled. "I gave you one job. After you begged and pleaded with me to allow you to participate in the operation, I granted you the bloody privilege and responsibility of protecting Molly. I thought it would be an easy job for you to handle while I was deep under cover, but I can see you are as useless as I've always suspected. It astonishes me that anyone would let you be in charge of a toddler, let alone a whole governmental division."

DI Lestrade flinched at the other man's words.

"Now Holmes, no need to get nasty-"

"Molly is in possession of information that is vital to making Jim Moriarty and his hoard of moral reprobates pay for their crimes. If she is not recovered in 24 hours, we must eliminate the threat."

Lestrade paled "No- not Molly-"

A hand snatched the umbrella the Detective Inspector had brought with him.

" I will not allow this information to make it into the wrong hands, I owe my brother that much at least".

Mycroft sent Lestrade a last cutting look and disappeared into the gloom.


	6. Laying Siege

A. N. : Hi! Sorry about the wait. ^_^

Disclaimer: Why is this show still not mine?

* * *

Lestrade gaped at Mycroft in amazement.

It had taken his men all of twenty minutes to secure the perimeter of the building. After that a whirlwind of agents were tugging, buckling and zipping various pieces of protective gear onto the two of them. Mycroft was making a face, as if he had been chewing on a lemon. Lestrade thought he heard the other man mutter something about leg work.

"Shall we?" Came Mycroft's voice, heavy with resignation. And just like that they were hustled off with a small unit of agents, sweeping the interior of the building. They followed Molly's GPS signal to a dank, dimly lit room in the basement.

Mycroft sent their support team around the other side of the corridor to cut off any escape attempts and then they were bursting into the room, Greg brandishing his service weapon and Mycroft griping the handle of his umbrella/ rapier tightly. There in the center of the room was a woman sprawled in an awkward looking heap. A small, but dangerous looking stream of blood trickled towards them.

"Shit." Greg was rushing forward, cradling the woman, gathering her as gently as one would a wounded kitten.

Lestrade ran his hands over her, seeking injuries, while Mycroft ran his eyes around the room, briefing himself on the situation. Stepping out of reach of the ever-growing puddle, Mycroft allowed a hiss to escape him. Not Good.

"Holmes, I can't find where she's hurt, -"

"There is a gash approximately one or two inches in length on her upper right arm, proximal to her abdomen. It has severed her brachial artery and without intervention she will perish." Mycroft recited in a somewhat bored tone, rocking back on his heels.

A soft voice floated up from Greg's lap " t-tie it up. tightly. restrict blood flow" .

The voice was shattered, weak, but the words, the words were sure, practiced, detached. She had spoken these words a hundred times.

Greg laid her carefully aside and scrambled to do as she had instructed.

Mycroft peered down at her and surprised everyone by gently cupping her cheek. "Molly." He said placidly.

"Gone." Irene spat out. She gestured to her limp arm. "Distraction."

...

John Hamish Watson clung tightly to the window sill above him, his feet scrambling for purchase on the slick rain-drenched bricks of the window below. He shot a look down to the pavement ten stories beneath where he stood, or rather, tried to stand. He glared down through the whipping wind, watching the miniature figures of Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty exit the building and climb into a blue van.

_Perfect. She is alone._

His weak arm twinged sharply as he struggled to pull himself up into the window above his head. He felt something deep within his scar tissue tear, but he ignored it, pushing onwards. He didn't think of the burning pain in his arm or of the blood seeping from his abused finger tips or the icy rain pelting him as he pressed himself against the building.

He only thought was: _Molly._

Molly was the key. He knew it.

Everything had changed after Irene dropped in and ruined his live of quiet desolation.

He had felt a bit like Sleeping Beauty; waking up after far too long , in some strange new place, confused and disoriented.

But the army doctor was no damsel in distress.

So, as he had always done, he took a breath to diagnose the situation, and then set about bringing order to the chaos.

_Fact:_ Sherlock is brilliant.

_Fact:_ Sherlock is an absolute fucking moron.

_Fact:_ Sherlock had always given John more credit than he deserved when it came to deducing things.

_Conclusion:_ it is entirely possible the fucking idiot had brilliantly faked his own death, but had hoped that John would figure that out from some stupidly obscure clues given to him whilst under extreme emotional distress.

_Magic Trick. Absolutely mental._

With a heave John flung himself through the open window and landed with a thump on the hard tile. He stood with a wince, testing his weight.

The Limp had cleared up for the most part.

When Irene had swept into _their_ flat- an bloody doppelgänger with _His_ Eyes and Hair, Coat and Secrets- when she had spoken those Words- the words that had been meant only for John's ears- The Last Words, she had chased his limp away. Chased it away with her smirks and her knowing eyes.

Still- he didn't trust it.

His leg that is.

Her visit had changed him.

She had taken the shell he had become and filled it back up - filled it with annoyance and jealousy, bitterness, rage- and hope.

Had made him something like a man again.

John may not have been a genius, but he certainly wasn't stupid. His marks had always been very good. He'd been top of his class everytime- but he'd had to work at it. It wasn't easy and automatic. He couldn't take a breath and absorb the secrets of the universe like Sherlock could.

Still he had understood the meaning behind Irene's visit well enough._ 'Quit moping Doctor: You hear, but you don't comprehend.' _

He couldn't hold back a sarcastic chuckle. So at Irene's biding, John had come back to life and began really looking at the world around him.

Strange dark sedans were making frequent tours of Baker Street. Mycroft probably, he'd thought. Checking up.

_Wanker._

It was the police detail shadowing Molly that had surprised him. He had caught sight of Donovan loitering at the end of Molly's street on three separate occasions. But Greg had turned green and disavowed all knowledge when questioned directly by John.

_Dilated pupils_ he had noted absently.

In fact the dilation occurred anytime Molly was brought up. Either the Detective Inspector fancied her, or he was afraid.

John heard a noise down the hall and began to quietly make his way in that direction.

_Molly_.


End file.
